Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

A Hollow Home

It started small, as it always did. Plans falling through. Promises broken. Little moments where everyone was too busy for Damian. Bruce buried himself in cases, always reviewing footage or chasing new leads. Dick was out of town on Titans business. Tim practically lived at the Batcomputer, absorbed in investigations. Even Jason, the one Damian could somewhat relate to, was off dealing with Red Hood's criminal informants.

Alfred tried—he always did—but Damian wasn't a child who needed to be tucked in or scolded for sneaking cookies. What Damian needed was family. He needed someone to sit with him in the dark and tell him they saw him, that he mattered.

But no one did.

The silence in Wayne Manor was suffocating. Even the training sessions felt empty—punches thrown into the air without a purpose. Damian could feel himself slipping, sinking deeper into the gnawing belief that no one cared.

He had always been good at hiding things, wearing his arrogance like armor. But the cracks were beginning to show. Each cold interaction chipped away at him. Every brush-off, every missed dinner, every mission where they didn't need him was another affirmation of what he feared most: he didn't belong.

The first cut had been an accident—or that's what Damian told himself. A shallow scratch along his arm after a particularly harsh patrol. But the sting was sharp and real. It grounded him, pulling him out of the haze of worthlessness. It became a pattern after that. Small slashes across his arms, his thighs—places they wouldn't see, places they wouldn't notice.

But the pain inside him grew faster than the cuts could keep up. And one night, after another patrol where Bruce dismissed him without a second glance, Damian knew he couldn't take it anymore.

The night was cold, a biting breeze sweeping over Gotham's skyline. Damian stood at the edge of a tall building, staring down at the street far below. His breath came out in shallow bursts, his heart pounding in his chest.

He had weighed his options. He had given them chances—time to see him, to really see him. But no one had. No one ever would.

His hands shook as he whispered to himself, "I'm sorry." The words hung in the air, fragile and broken. He closed his eyes, feeling the wind tug at him, almost begging him to let go.

And then, a voice.

"Damian."

He opened his eyes to see his mother, Talia al Ghul, standing a few feet away. She moved closer, slowly, her expression unreadable.

"What are you doing, beloved?" she asked softly, though there was no pity in her voice—only understanding.

"I don't belong here," Damian whispered, his voice cracking. "They don't want me. They don't see me."

Talia's gaze softened in a way that only a mother's could. She stepped closer, her hand resting gently on his shoulder.

"You were never meant to belong with them."

Damian's breath hitched as she continued, her voice low and persuasive.

"You are not weak like them, my son. You are meant for more—for greatness. Come back to the League. I can give you a place where you matter, where you are needed."

For the first time in what felt like forever, someone was offering him a way out. A place where he wouldn't have to fight for scraps of love.

And so, Damian took her hand.

When the Bat Family realized Damian was gone, it was already too late. Alfred had found his room empty the next morning, the bed neatly made. His belongings were still there, but Damian was gone.

At first, they thought it was just a tantrum—something he would come back from in a day or two. But hours turned into days, and days turned into panic.

Bruce was the first to connect the dots. A tracker in Damian's comms had gone offline somewhere along the Gotham docks. The absence gnawed at Bruce's conscience—he had been distant, too wrapped up in the mission to notice his son slipping away. And now, Damian was out there, alone.

They scoured the city, questioning informants and contacts, but no one had seen him. Until Jason found the clue—an assassin, low-ranking, muttering something about the League of Shadows.

The pieces fell into place, and Bruce's heart sank.

The League's stronghold was hidden in the mountains, a maze of stone corridors and shadowed halls. The Bat Family infiltrated it under cover of night, moving silently through the fortress like wraiths. But no amount of stealth could prepare them for what they found.

In the heart of the stronghold stood Damian—clad in black, the insignia of the Demon's Head stitched into his armor. His eyes, once bright with fire and ambition, were now cold and distant. He stood tall, shoulders squared, the weight of a thousand expectations finally shed.

He looked at them without a flicker of recognition, as though they were strangers.

"Damian," Bruce whispered, stepping forward. "Come home."

But Damian didn't move. His expression remained blank, emotionless.

"I am home," he said, his voice devoid of warmth.

"Kid, what are you doing?" Jason asked, his tone halfway between anger and desperation.

Damian tilted his head slightly, as if the question was irrelevant. "What I should have done a long time ago. I'm where I belong."

Bruce clenched his fists. "You don't have to do this. We can fix this—we can fix us."

But Damian's lips curled into a bitter smile. "It's too late for that, Father."

In a swift, fluid motion, Damian drew a sword from his belt, its edge gleaming under the flickering torchlight. His posture was relaxed, controlled, as though holding a weapon was second nature.

"Leave," he said, his voice calm but filled with quiet menace. "There's no place for you here."

"Damian, please—" Dick tried, but Damian's eyes hardened.

"I was never good enough for any of you," he said, his voice low but sharp. "I gave everything I had, and it still wasn't enough."

Bruce's heart felt like it was shattering in his chest. He had failed his son in every way that mattered, and now Damian stood before him—not as his child, but as a weapon forged in pain and neglect.

"You were always enough," Bruce whispered, his voice breaking. "We just didn't show it. I'm sorry, Damian."

But the apology came too late.

Damian turned away, his cape sweeping behind him like a shroud. "Go," he said over his shoulder. "Before I make you leave."

Bruce hesitated for a moment, as if hoping—praying—that Damian might look back. But he didn't.

And so, with hearts heavy and spirits broken, the Bat Family retreated into the night, leaving Damian behind in the shadows of the League.

The journey back to Gotham was silent. No one spoke—what was there to say? They had come to bring Damian home, but home was no longer a place he wanted to be.

In the days that followed, life went on at Wayne Manor. Missions continued. Patrols were conducted. But the absence of the youngest member of their family lingered like a wound that refused to heal.

Bruce stood at the window of the Batcave every night, staring into the darkness, hoping that one day Damian might come back. But deep down, he knew—his son was lost to him now, not by force, but by choice.

And the saddest part of all?

He couldn't even blame him.